A/N: hey there peoples! Okay let's try this again. I am completly revising this fic because let's just face it, it was crap. Your shouts of Mary Sue have been heard and changes have been made to 'Changes'. The plot is still the same although there is going to be a LOT more case that before, and I mean a lot more. You might actually be able to find it this time. So read it and enjoy the new and improved (meaning it is now readable) story.

Changes at Baker Street

Chapter One: An Unusual Welcome

Why? Why am I doing this? Why did my dad choose now send me half way around the world to visit my aunt? Moreover, an aunt I have not seen in over ten years?

Such were the thoughts that ran through my head on a boat headed for London. Unfortunately, there was no getting out of it. I was to stay with my aunt, and the man that she works for, an entire year. As the boat made its way up to the docks, I decided to make the best of it. Heading back to my quarters, I collected my small travel bag; my other things would be brought over later once the ship was unpacked.

I made my way down the gang plank along with the other passengers, once again wondering what I was doing here. Taking in my surrounding I became overwhelmed by the crowd that seemed to be stack at this particular pier. Large crowds never bothered me in New York, in fact, I thrived in them however, the mass of people mixed with the uncertainty that comes with being on foreign soil combined together leaving me very nervous.

"Mikael?" I heard someone call. Turning around I recognized my Aunt Martha, an older version perhaps, but still much the same as I remembered her. She was a short, plump woman in her mid-thirties with her hair pulled into a tight bun and a pleasant smile on her face. A bit of the uncertainty left at the sight of a familiar face.

"Auntie Martha!" I called back cheerfully pushing my way through the crowd towards her.

We hugged and exchanged all the formalities one is required to share with a relative you had not seen in a decade, and them headed for the carriage she had hired. During the ride to her house, I informed her of all the happenings in New York since my last letter. When the hansom stopped, I looked out the window at the apartment that was to be my home for the next year. "Come dear," said my aunt, "let's get you settled in and then I'll make us some tea."

The apartment at 221B Baker Street was an older building. The ground floor consisted of my aunt's room and a smaller room that was, until my arrival, empty, a kitchen and a small parlor that also served as a library. The upstairs also had several rooms, Two of those I found later were bedrooms. One of which is occupied by my aunt's employer, one that had been recently vacated by one Dr. John Watson and a room that I later found out was some sort of small lab. For the sake of propriety, instead of moving into the larger, cozier room upstairs, I was put into the smaller room at the front of the building.

While she gathered the refreshments, I wandered around the Parlor/Library looking through the odd assortment of books; just then, a man walked in through the front door. "Mrs. Hudson, I'm home. Oh," he said spotting me for the first time, "may I be of some service?"

"No, I don't believe so." I answered shaking my head.

He raised an eyebrow in puzzlement at the five-foot-two, slim, (and I will choose to phrase it) slightly unshaply woman in front of him. While he took this time to study me, I chose to do the same with him. He was a thin man slightly over six feet, had dark brown almost black hair, and gray eyes. His eyes were what interested me most; they were like deep pools of swirling mist that showed an unfathomable amount of intelligence.

"Then what are you doing in my house?" He demanded, snapping me out of my revelry. My presence obviously confused him.

"I'm sorry. My name is Mikael Garrison." I said, offering my hand, at which he just stared.

"Mikael?" said he, "As in Mrs. Hudson's brother's lad?"

I smiled in amusement. My name often had this effect and I was more than use to the reaction that I was faced with now. Aunt Martha strode into the room with a tray. "I never said that my brother had a son, Mr. Holmes. If you had listened you would have known that." He cast another look at me, shook his head and disappeared upstairs until dinner, leaving his things at the door. Thus, my first meeting with the newspapers great detective, Sherlock Holmes.

After dinner, we were all settled in front of the fire with Mr. Holmes reading, Aunt Martha sewing, and me writing. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Mr. Holmes studying me over his newspaper. He was taking the earlier incident harder then most people did. The few times he spoke to me during dinner he put a mocking emphasis on the word 'miss' that was more than called for. I chose to address him. "Do you plan on holding against me the fact that I am a girl the entire time I am here, Mr. Holmes?" I asked putting the same emphasis into Mr. as he had miss. He snorted and sank lower into his chair, concentrating on his newspaper.

Our relationship did not improve over the next week or so. His dignity was still bruised and I was not about to ask for forgiveness over my name.

When I brought his tea into the parlor some weeks later, he was bent over his desk studying something intently. As was usual he ignored my presence not even looking up at me when I cleared off a space for the tray. We had scarcely said more then a dozen words to each other so far and it wasn't from a lack of trying on my part. I watched him work from the side of the table. He gazed intently at the two small marks in front of him completely focused. I edged closer, trying to see exactly what he was studying.

Finally I got up the nerve to ask him "What are you doing?"

"Matching fingerprints." He answered without looking up.

I was confused. I did not see how a person could match up fingerprints since they were only smudges that everyone left behind, and I said as much to Holmes.

"On the contrary," he replied, "Although you are right in the fact that everyone does leave them behind they do not all leave the same print behind. Every fingerprint is unique, there are no two alike. When a criminal touches something they are in effect leaving a piece of themselves at the crime scene, giving me something to track them down with."

I was nodding as I thought over what he had said and really, it made sense to me.

"So," I interjected, "when you finally do track down the person who did it you merely have to get their fingerprint and compare it to the original print that you found to make sure it is the same person."

He looked up at me for the first time since I had entered the room. "Yes." From the look on his face, I don't think he was expecting me to understand him. He glanced down at the prints then back up at me before shaking his head.

Next he started digging through the drawers around him, "Where is that magnifying glass?" I heard him mumble.

I walked to the other end of the room to where I had seen the missing piece of equipment earlier. Picking it up, I handed it to him. He took it from me silently and bent back over his work. Since Holmes had made no protest to my watching thus far, I chose to stay in my spot next to the table. I was thoroughly intrigued by his world fingerprint analysis and the like. After five minutes, he declared the prints a match, stood up, stretched then noticed me staring at him somewhat blankly. "Here have a look." He said pushing the papers toward me. I held the magnifying glass over the first print, fascinated by the lines that came into focus. I traced the arches and curves with my eyes trying to memorize every detail before moving on to its twin. I did the same to the second as I had the first, going back and forth between the two as I had watched Holmes do. Knowing that they where already a match, it didn't take me long to see the similarities in the prints.

"I can see it." I declared grinning widely. It felt ridiculous to be so exited over something so small but Holmes seemed pleased with my ability, although I could tell he tried not to show it.

Over the next few days we started a pattern. I would bring in the afternoon tea then sit and watch Holmes go about his work. He never complained about my presence and didn't seem to mind answering the questions I asked him.

From what I could gather Holmes use to share his findings with his ex-roommate, Dr. Watson, and now that he was gone Holmes seemed to have decided that I would do instead. I wasn't about complain, everything he showed me I found extremely interesting.

The next day I brought his tea in as usual, I found a stack of books and folders sitting on the desk next to Holmes.

"Read these." Holmes grunted at me.

"Why?" I asked putting down the tray.

"Some important information came in on my case today and I can be bothered, so you can either read these or go back to your chores." He said.

I opened my mouth to ask how I was suppose to learn the things he had been teaching me from a book, but he turned away from me, intent on his work.

He had me at a bit of a disadvantage for he knew that I would rather learn something, anything for that matter, than go back to working for my aunt.

I grudgingly picked up the top Item, a file folder, and walked over to the settee. Looking at the name of the author I decided that perhaps I could learn something from some of the work. The name at the top was that of Sherlock Holmes.

The next day when I walked into the parlor Holmes was once again bend over his desk. I put the tray down and waited, without looking up he motioned at the pile of book. Picking up the top volume I was less than thrilled with the subject: chemistry. Once again, I took up my position on the settee and began to read.

'HOLMES POV'

I was just finishing up with my work, having found the clue I had spent two days searching for, when a knock sounded at the door.

"Come in Watson." I called.

He entered the room shaking his head. "By Jove Holmes I shall never understand how you do it." He exclaimed.

I offered his some brandy, commenting on how he must have had a hard day. He chitchatted for moment on his day then sat back and relaxed in his old chair. The married life was doing well on my old friend, despite being tired he looked happy and healthy.

Watson looked around the room and noticed Mikael's sleeping form for the first time. She had fallen asleep about an hour into her reading and had not stirred when Watson had entered.

He stared at her for a minute before turning to me. "Who is that?" he asked, nodding in her direction.

"Oh, that's Mikael Garrison."

At hearing her name, she sat bolt upright knocking the book on the ground and yelled out, "Hydrochloric acid."

MIKAEL'S POV

I looked around the room trying to get my bearings when I spotted Holmes and another man sitting in the room staring at me. The man gazed on with raised brows, most likely contemplating my sanity and Holmes had an amused smirk on his face.

I felt my cheeks flush in embarrassment and I quickly reached down to pick up the book. "The uh… last thing I read was on um, hydrochloric acid." I stammered.

"Well since you are awake now," Holmes said, "I can introduce you properly. Mikael this is Dr. John Watson, my closest friend and companion." Watson shook my hand and said a quiet 'how do you do'. Holmes turn to me, "Watson this is Mikael, she is Mrs. Hudson's niece and my new apprentice."

At hearing the last part Watson and I abruptly let go of hands and stared at Holmes.

"Apprentice?" we asked in unison. Apparently, Watson was just as shocked about this as I.

Holmes reacted as only Holmes can, he ignored us both and stuffed his pipe.

TBC

(I'll get the next chapter up as soon as it's rewritten. BYE!)